Conned: A Bureau Story (The Bureau Book 6)

by Kim Fielding

  Dammit. He needed more rum.

  France began with a few simple tricks that required nothing more than manual dexterity and marked cards. He claimed, however, that ghosts hid that man’s chosen card under the silk kerchief on France’s tall table or whispered in his ear which card that pretty girl had chosen. And the audience believed because they were drunk and France was exotic and charming, and because they wanted to believe.

  Thomas knew better. There was no such thing as ghosts. He’d seen plenty of dead people—hundreds, if not thousands—but had never once glimpsed a white-sheeted specter floating across a battlefield or hospital. Dead was simply dead, a pile of meat and bones waiting for the worms.

  The audience oohed and aahed. They applauded when France seemed to read their minds. They gasped when he levitated of vase full of roses and made it swing across the stage. Even Thomas was entertained, if for no other reasons than sussing out the secrets behind the tricks was an interesting puzzle and France was easy to look at.

  Thomas was on his second glass of rum and had very nearly forgotten why he was attending the show to begin with, when France called his assistant from backstage. Ah. There was Roy Gage, gangly and uncomfortable-looking in a suit, his expression serious. He stood beside France and squinted out into the audience.

  “My friends,” France said, “tonight I have a very special thing to show you. This has been attempted by tvelve magicians before me, but every von of them has failed.” He stepped forward and lowered his voice as if sharing a confidence. “Every von of them… has died.”

  This was what the audience wanted. They remained silent, unmoving, glasses of booze in front of them and cigarettes in hand, their eyes trained firmly on the stage.

  France smiled at them. “Vill I be the thirteenth to die? I do not believe so, for I have von protection the others lacked. As you have already seen, I have the spirits to guard me. They vill not let me be harmed.”

  After executing a tiny bow, France angled slightly toward Gage. “Raunak, if you please?”

  Before Thomas could snort at the name that suited Gage so poorly, Gage reached into his pocket and pulled out a gun.

  Without thinking, Thomas reached into his own pocket and barely stopped himself from drawing his weapon. It’s just a bloody show, he reminded himself. Nothing but a trick. Still, he kept his right hand over the pocket as he took a close look at what Gage held. It was a small gun with a metal-and-wood barrel. A single-shot weapon, and an old one. A derringer of some kind, but Thomas couldn’t tell the make since Gage’s hand covered much of it.

  France took the gun and cradled it in his palm. “Friends, I first read of this demonstration in an ancient tome from my own country. It was a test, you see, for men to prove their faith and bravery before setting to var with the Ottomans. Early on, this test vas done with arrows shot by the most skilled marksmen or perhaps blades thrown vith precise aim. It vas only later that my predecessors used veapons such as this.” He stroked the gun’s barrel with two fingers, a gesture so erotic that Thomas shifted in his seat.

  “You see, vonderful ladies and gentlemen, a deadly missile is aimed at the man to be tested. If it strikes him, he vill surely die. And how can it not strike him? For it is launched at close range vith perfect accuracy. The only thing that vill save him is intervention from… beyond.”

  France then went into a long tale about several people—no doubt imaginary—who had been killed by this particular trick over the centuries. It was just storytelling, nothing else, but he was damned good at it. The audience hung breathless on his every word, tracking him as he moved gracefully across the stage. Even Gage appeared entranced, and he must have heard this plenty of times already. The show itself was only mediocre, but Thomas figured that everyone who’d seen it would go home thinking they’d been grandly entertained—if not by the illusions, then by the man himself.

  Eventually France paused and straightened his shoulders. “It is time. Let us hope my spirit acquaintances are compassionate tonight.” He handed the gun back to Gage, pulled a bullet from a pocket, and held it high. “Ve shall need a volunteer to mark the bullet and load it into the veapon. Please, only those of you who are vell acquainted with guns such as this.”

  At once, a dozen or so hands shot into the air, all but one belonging to men. The sole woman, a stout matron in her sixties, had a flinty look in her eyes.

  “Raunak, you may choose.”

  Gage hopped down from the stage and took time at his task, wandering among the tables with a thoughtful expression. In the end he chose the woman, which made the audience cheer. He watched as she slowly loaded the gun. Then he took it from her and led her by the arm to the stage, helping her up the steps.

  France bowed to her. “Madame, you have experience vith veapons such as these?”

  She lifted her chin and spoke loudly and clearly. “I was born in Colorado, before it was even a state and when you never knew who might try to steal from your ranch. My papa taught me to use a shotgun before I knew how to read and write. I’ve been a dead shot with a pistol since I was ten. I carried a pearl-handled derringer until my husband begged me to stop. He was afraid the police would come after me.” As the audience laughed, she shot a glare in the general direction of where she’d been seated, presumably aiming at her spouse.

  For his part, France seemed delighted. He bowed to her again. “Then I am most honored that you are villing to assist me tonight. In a few moments, Raunak vill return the gun to you. He vill show you vhere to stand, and then I shall ask you to shoot me. Please aim directly for my head.”

  “What if I kill you?”

  “Then that is entirely my own fault for not sufficiently pleasing the spirits. You vill not be held legally accountable.”

  “All right then.”

  He nodded. “Please, just give me a short time to summon the spirits from beyond.”

  A peaceful expression settled over France’s face as he closed his eyes and went very still. As a move undoubtedly intended to heighten the tension, it worked; the audience thrummed with expectation. Thomas wondered what excited them so: the prospect of a wondrous spectacle or the prospect of a bloody death. Maybe they’d settle for either.

  Just when the crowd might have grown restless, France opened his eyes. He wasn’t smiling now; instead, a tiny frown of concentration creased his brow. “I hope that is enough,” he said quietly, as if to himself.

  He walked toward the back of the stage, placing himself at a slight angle. That way the audience would have a better view of the woman when she faced him and, presumably, a stray bullet wouldn’t kill anyone in the audience. “Raunak, kindly show madam vhere to stand.”

  Gage did as ordered, placing her very precisely. Then he trotted to a brightly painted cabinet where France had stored some of his props and returned, holding a thick pane of glass.

  “Madam, Raunak vill hold the glass in front of you. Its breakage vill demonstrate that the gun has truly fired.”

  There was a bit more fussing, a few more instructions, and finally the woman raised the derringer. She had an admirably steady hand. Gage, standing as far from her as possible, used one hand to hold the glass less than a foot from the muzzle. France closed his eyes and mouthed something that might have been a prayer.

  “Shoot, please,” he said.

  The sounds of the gunshot and shattering glass blasted Thomas so hard that he jerked back in his chair. For a second or two, he heard the screams of falling shells, the deep thuds of blasts, the shrieks of wounded men. He smelled gunpowder and blood and felt mud caking his body.

  Then everything cleared and he was back in a San Francisco club—and France had collapsed onto the stage. In the echoing silence, nobody breathed.

  Abandoning the woman, Gage raced to his fallen employer and knelt beside him. He set one hand on France’s shoulder… and then scrambled backward when France leapt to his feet. The crowd gasped. France swept to the front of the stage, pulled a copper shot glass from his trouser
pocket, and spat into it. The sound of metal on metal was unmistakable.

  Smiling triumphantly, he fished the bullet out of the receptacle and held it high. “Friends, I am overjoyed to report that the spirits are vith me tonight!”

  The applause was almost as deafening as the gunshot, although it didn’t trigger Thomas’s unpleasant memories. France bowed, shook the woman’s hand—giving her the bullet as a souvenir—and asked the audience to thank her. Gage took the gun from her and led her back to her seat. She held her head high, clearly enjoying the attention.

  Apart from more clapping and bowing, that was the end of the show. The curtains closed with France and Gage still onstage. Some people began to file out. Thomas hurriedly paid his tab, gathered his coat and hat, and joined the outflow.

  He’d cased the club before the show, so he knew that the only exits were the big double doors in front and a smaller door that opened off the side onto an alley. The alley dead-ended, so the only way to leave it—short of climbing brick walls—was to go out onto Spear Street. So that’s where Thomas waited, in the shadows of a doorway across the street.

  He waited for over an hour, although it felt longer. He wanted to smoke, but since the glow would have given him away, he instead turned up his collar against the night chill and sulked.

  By the time the kid finally emerged from the alley, most of the magic crowd had gone, replaced by patrons who simply wanted to drink. At first Thomas thought France was with Gage, but as the streetlight hit them, he got a better look and saw it was a different bloke. Taller than France and heavier, with far less grace in his movements.

  Thomas followed the pair up Spear to Market and tailed them up Market all the way to Eddy and Mason, only a block from John’s Grill. But Gage and his friend didn’t go in, and they surprised Thomas when they didn’t continue into the Tenderloin. He’d thought they might be going to a speakeasy or show, or maybe to cheap rooms.

  Instead they entered the Ambassador Hotel, an imposing red-brick building. Rooms there would set a fellow back upwards of a dollar-fifty a night. Big spending compared to the Army and Navy Y.

  A minute or two after Gage and his companion went inside, Thomas followed. He was just in time to see one of the lifts stop on the fourth floor. After that, a little persuasion and ten dollars convinced the desk clerk to spill. Gage was registered, he’d shown up three days earlier, and he was staying in room 412.

  Conveniently, there was a payphone in the lobby, and Thomas gave the operator the number from Townsend’s business card. Townsend himself picked up on the third ring.

  “Yes?”

  “Found your boy. Ambassador Hotel, room 412. He’s there right now.”

  “Excellent! Most excellent. Well done, Mr. Donne. I’m happy my confidence in you was well-placed. I’ll have the remainder of your fee brought to your office in the morning.”

  “After ten.”

  Townsend chuckled. “Very well. Enjoy your evening, Mr. Donne.”

  After Thomas hung up, he thought about the dollars still in his pocket and the blind pigs only a short stroll away. Plus he had no need to wake up early. Lovely.

  That had been easy as pie.

  4

  The show had gone well despite Abe’s aching head. It had been a good crowd, eager and responsive, and Ray had done his part well. The woman volunteer had been a happy accident; Abe couldn’t have wished for a better person to pull the trigger. Maybe he should track her down and invite her to participate in his next several shows. The idea made him smile, even as he collapsed wearily into the back of a taxi.

  Most of his show patter was nonsense, but the bullet catch was a legitimately dangerous trick. Several people had been injured or killed performing it, including the magician Chung Ling Soo, who had died ten years earlier in London. Emil had advised Abe not to do this illusion.

  Abe liked the bullet catch nonetheless. For one thing, it always pleased the crowd. Even if the rest of the show was mediocre, this trick finished it literally with a bang, leaving the audience satisfied. More importantly, though, seeing the gun aimed at his face made Abe’s heart gallop. Ironically, in that moment of near death he felt most alive. Besides, he’d always thought it would be a good way to permanently exit life. People would remember him. He might even become a part of future magicians’ patter.

  After a successful show, and especially after the bullet catch, Abe didn’t usually go home right away. He’d head to a speakeasy or stroll Market Street, and soon he’d exchange looks with some handsome fellow. They’d retire to the fellow’s house or Abe’s or a nearby hotel room or, if the need was urgent enough, a back room or hidden alley. Those exchanges also made Abe feel alive, at least for a time.

  Tonight, though, his head still pounded damnably. Abe had sent Roy off a bit early—accompanied by an acquaintance of Roy’s—and had finished packing up the props himself. Now he sat in the taxi, eyes closed, as it bumped its way to the Richmond District.

  Emil had also disapproved of Abe’s neighborhood. It was too far out, he said, and not grand enough to make a good impression. But Abe had bought a house on Twelfth Avenue near Clement because he could afford it and because the languages and accents of his Jewish and European neighbors made him feel at home. He could even find some of his favorite childhood foods at the nearby markets and restaurants. People made their way to him for séances, and the streetcar was only a block away.

  Although Abe was usually content with where he lived, tonight the drive felt endless, the hills steeper, the roads especially uneven. He intermittently massaged his scalp or rubbed his temples until the taxi halted. His house, which he generally found comfortable, seemed cold and forbidding tonight. All the windows were dark, the doorway hidden in shadows. It was as if nobody had lived there for years.

  Abe paid the driver and got out of the car, but he staggered with his first step and fell back against the vehicle.

  “You all right?” asked the driver through his open window.

  “Sorry. A little dizzy.”

  “You want my advice, lay off the rotgut. That stuff’ll do you in.”

  Abe stood upright but kept a hand on the car to steady himself. “I’m not drunk.”

  “Then you need a doctor.”

  “I think I just need some sleep.”

  His front steps proved a small challenge, and he used the railing to pull himself up. He fumbled his key, dropped it, and nearly toppled when he bent to retrieve it. By then the taxi had rumbled away, which was perhaps just as well. He didn’t want more advice.

  Finally inside the house, he made his way to the stairs, shedding his clothing onto the floor as he progressed: hat just inside the door, overcoat past it, suit coat in the hallway. He leaned against a wall to unlace his shoes, which he kicked off hard enough that one left a mark on the opposite wall. He’d address that another time. Getting up the stairs took so much effort that he nearly gave up, and when he made it to the second floor, he had to run to the bathroom and vomit into the toilet. He was beginning to wish the woman had shot him after all.

  Eventually he reached his bedroom and got the rest of his clothing off, leaving it in a disgraceful heap on the floor. He doused the lights. For the second time that day, he climbed into bed naked and waited for sleep to take away the pain.

  5

  Although Thomas’s head still buzzed with rum, when he reached home he took a bottle of gin from the cupboard and poured a glassful. The Jefferson Hotel wasn’t the worst in the city, although it was a long way from the best. Three dollars a week meant Thomas had to walk up four flights of stairs, but he had his own toilet, shower, and sink. The main room had a table with two chairs, an armchair, a bureau, and a bed that folded into the wall. A kitchen would have been nice, but the flat kept him warm and dry, which was good enough. He didn’t mind the noises that drifted up from the street, and the neighbors minded their own business, as did he.

  He sat for a while near the open window, drinking, rolling cigarettes, and smoking,
exhaling gray puffs that dissipated in the late-night darkness. As he watched, the jazz club across the street closed, and musicians and employees spilled onto the street, laughing loudly. His eyes followed as they disappeared down the block.

  If he let his mind go, it might wander into enemy territory, where mortar shells crashed and men screamed, where blood turned dirt to stinking mud. So instead he thought about Townsend, and Roy Gage, and options for spending the remainder of the fee. He could move from the Jefferson to somewhere nicer, or hire a girl for his front office. He could buy some new suits. Or a lot of rum.

  Or he could keep it somewhere safe to ward off the wolves a bit longer.

  The sky was still dark when he pulled down his bed, but dawn wasn’t far away.

  Thomas expected a messenger to arrive in his office shortly past ten, but none did. By eleven, he took out the card with Townsend’s number and set it on the desk but didn’t reach for the phone. He figured Townsend for the type who paid his debts. There was no good reason for the man to have promised him three hundred dollars if he didn’t intend to pay; they both knew Thomas would have accepted the case for far less.

  Just before noon, his patience was rewarded by heavy footsteps in the hall. Not a messenger but Townsend himself, who strode inside and hung his hat and coat on the rack.

  “Doing your own errands?” Thomas asked.

  “I don’t always trust other people to perform satisfactorily.” Townsend pulled out a plain white envelope and set it on the desk before taking a seat. “Go ahead and count it.”

  “I will.”

  It was two hundred, exactly as promised. Thomas tucked the crisp bills away. He rolled a cigarette and lit it, Townsend’s gaze sharp upon him, and leaned back in his chair as if nothing in the world ever troubled him. “You want me to follow more boys home? I could give you a group discount.”